


In Deed

by inkvoices



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Pets, Polyamory, Threesome - F/M/M, how do relationships work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 06:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13758576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkvoices/pseuds/inkvoices
Summary: Bucky is having a bad day.  Lucky and Liho help.  So do Clint and Natasha.





	In Deed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meatball42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meatball42/gifts).



> Something a bit more cheerful for you, Meatball42! With thanks to CloudAtlas for beta reading <3

It’s not a good day. 

Bucky sits on the couch with the TV remote clutched in his right hand, knuckles white, staring at the blank screen. He’d meant to watch something - the latest episode of Dog Cops, one of Clint’s DVDs, a cooking channel, _something_ \- but there’d been too many choices. It hadn't been a life or death decision, just something to watch to pass the time while Clint and Natasha are out. It had made him panic all the same. Stupid.

The funny thing is that when he _is_ faced with a life or death decision, something inside him just clicks and he can deal with it. That’s familiar. Easy. It’s when he’s faced with choices about the little things that sometimes his brain starts running around in circles until it collapses, exhausted, and he zones out. Like now, sitting here with his mind blank, limbs heavy, and no impetus to do anything. Frozen, like being in cryo all over again, only he’s aware of every second.

He tries to focus outwards, on the things happening around him. It doesn't make his body any more cooperative, but - slowly, cautiously, as long as it doesn't have to _do_ anything - his mind eases into a wider sense of awareness.

How his body is settled into the well-used couch cushions. 

The smooth surface of the TV remote.

Sunshine streaming through the windows.

Lucky’s claws clicking on the wooden floor as the dog ambles into the kitchen area.

He watches as Lucky laps messily at the water in his bowl - splashing it on the mat that Natasha put down for just that purpose - before wandering over to the couch. The dog tilts his head, considering Bucky, and then jumps up next to him.

“Pretty sure you’re not allowed up here,” Bucky tells him, voice hoarse from disuse. 

Not that Clint ever enforces that rule.

Lucky just gives him a doggy-grin and flops down across Bucky’s thighs, his head and upper body a warm, comforting weight. The water drenching his muzzle soaks into Bucky’s sweatpants. The wet fabric sticks to his skin and there's an unpleasant whiff of wet dog.

“Hey,” Bucky mutters in protest, quiet in case Lucky thinks he actually means it.

He forces himself to let go of the remote and rests his hand on top of Lucky’s head instead; on warm, silky-soft fur. He gently strokes between Lucky’s ears and the dog settles further into his lap, enjoying the attention.

So of course this is the moment that Liho choses to launch herself up onto the back of the couch. The damn cat is always ignoring him, but the minute he’s giving the dog any kind of attention here she is. 

She saunters along the back of the couch, like it’s her own personal red carpet - or catwalk, ha - head and tail held high, showing complete disinterest in her surroundings. Apart from how as she walks behind Bucky’s head she slows right down and rubs the side of her body across as much of him as she can, completely messing up Bucky’s man bun, but whatever.

He never minds looking dishevelled when it’s because someone has been paying him attention. He doesn’t even mind it on the days he puts serious effort into his appearance, because _someone thought I was worth touching and couldn’t keep their hands off me_ always beats _yeah, I can look this good_.

Tired as he is, both inside and out, he still manages a small smile. Can’t help it.

Lucky gives no shits, even when Bucky pauses in his head patting. The dog isn’t the jealous type.

Then Lucky’s ears prick up and a moment later Bucky also catches the sound of footsteps on the stairs, followed by a key turning in the lock. Lucky is off the couch almost immediately, bounding over to greet his owner before the door has even opened.

Bucky feels somewhat bereft, which is stupid. It's not his dog.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Clint says, crouching down and letting his shopping bags fall to the floor so that he can ruffle the fur around Lucky’s neck with both hands, the pair of them grinning and clearly happy to see each other. 

One of the abandoned reusable bags topples over and a couple of oranges make a bid for freedom. Natasha, strolling in behind Clint, quickly shuts the apartment door before they can escape. 

She rolls her eyes at Clint and steps around the reunion to place _her_ bags sensibly on the kitchen counter, a dull thunk indicating that she’s bought wine to go with dinner. Then she retrieves Clint’s bags and the oranges, adding them to the rest of the shopping on the counter. She glares at Clint as he pulls off his Chucks and drops them by the door, still fussing over Lucky. 

Bucky knows if Clint doesn't move his shoes in a bit Natasha is not above kicking them across the apartment to make a point, not that Clint ever cares. Bucky’s waiting for the day she ups her game to hiding them. 

It’s not that she's obsessed with the apartment being tidy, just that in the event of a fight or an emergency it’s helpful to have the floor clear and everything in a known place. When you need to grab a knife, checking if it’s actually in the knife block or still in the kitchen sink waiting to be washed costs precious seconds. Bucky gets it. Clint... is more of an improviser.

Before she unpacks though, Natasha walks over to Bucky and drops a kiss on top of his head. It feels like being branded; the heat of her lips sinking through his hair and skin, into his veins and his blood. It’s almost enough to warm his whole body. Enough to ease his tense muscles into relaxing.

Of course she notices the remote lying abandoned next to him, the silent television, his lack of movement, the comfy, stay-at-home sweatpants and t-shirt combo he’s sporting. But he _has_ showered and the t-shirt is clean, so she doesn’t say anything. She can tell when he's not in the right frame of mind for words and will happily leave him to his peace and quiet unless she has reason not to.

Admittedly the t-shirt is only clean because it’s one he stole from Clint’s drawer. It’s the kind of day where he cares enough about himself to pay attention to personal hygiene, but hasn’t the energy to do laundry. The t-shirt is only a little tight across the chest, just a touch loose around the upper arms, and it’s black - unusual for Clint - and worn soft. It smells of familiar detergent and Clint. He might keep it, if he can get away with it. Clint likes seeing Bucky and Natasha in his clothes, so the odds are good.

“Lucky behaved himself?” Clint asks, breaking the silence but thankfully not appearing to require an answer. The dog barks and wags his tail at the sound of his own name, and Clint pats him on the head. “You never do with me, do you?”

“Because you’d let him get away with murder,” Natasha says, amused.

She picks up Liho, who purrs and willingly accepts being snuggled against Natasha’s chest. If Bucky or Clint tried that the claws would have come out. Not that they’d be a problem for Bucky if he used his metal arm, but he doesn’t like doing that. He might catch Liho’s fur between the plates or something.

Natasha lets Liho out of her arms and onto the kitchen counter alongside the shopping, and Liho sits there primly cleaning her legs with her little pink tongue. Lucky, still excited, walks around and around Clint’s legs as he joins Natasha in the kitchen to put the shopping away, almost but never quite tripping his owner up.

“Especially of Russians,” Clint agrees cheerfully. He leans around Liho to pick up the bread and cereal, and the cat ignores him.

“What?” Bucky manages to ask, sounding awful. He swallows, trying to summon moisture into his mouth. It’s the first time he’s spoken to another person all day though so that’s good; that’s an achievement. Even if it’s not the whole ‘why would your dog want to murder Russians and what is it with you and Russians anyway?’ that he would have managed on a good day.

Clint seems to get the general gist though.

“Ah. I kind of stole him from a Russian Mob?”

“After he took their building,” Natasha says. She tosses an orange at Clint’s head, but Clint anticipates the attack and catches it. 

Playful violence from Natasha means Clint did something dumb which she's forgiven but not forgotten. Probably something White Knight; she likes to pretend that doesn't impress her, but sometimes when Clint is doing something selfless and dumb she'll turn to Bucky and give him a look - _can you believe this guy?_ And Bucky will remember when Steve was skinny and a stiff wind could blow him over but he’d still be the first to get between a bully and their victim, and he’ll shake his head and laugh, because sure, he just can't believe he’s lucky enough to have met two of them.

“I _bought_ the building from the Russians,” Clint says. Natasha throws another orange at him. He catches that one too and starts juggling them, grinning at her when she rolls her eyes. “Okay, kind of… forcibly bought.”

Natasha snatches the oranges out of the air and puts them in the fruit bowl where they belong. Clint follows, still grinning, with the apples and then pair of them dance around each other as they unpack the rest of the shopping, somehow never getting in each other’s way.

Bucky loves watching them move together – the way they fall in step with each other – whether they’re sparring or doing something as simple at this. Today, though, somehow he feels lonely, like he’s removed from it; watching from an untraversable distance away or from behind indestructible glass, instead of just on the coach where an orange could get thrown his way too at any moment.

It doesn’t feel like that with the animals, as he watches Lucky pressing his nose against Clint’s butt and Liho sitting unmoving in the middle of all the action because of course everything should revolve around her. Bucky feels like Lucky could just as easily wander over to nudge his knee or Liho could demand his attention. Maybe it’s because with them, unlike with people, there’s no pressure, no expectations, no worrying about what he should or shouldn’t do. They’re not his though; the time Bucky spends with them is borrowed time.

He could get his own pet, but he doesn’t feel like he could take on that level of responsibility; to look after another living thing that would be so very dependent on him for its care and wellbeing. It wouldn't be fair. He could get a low maintenance pet, but… It wouldn't be the same.

He’d really like a dog, though. Some day.

“Hey, you want a dog?” Clint says to Bucky, either being extraordinarily perceptive or accidentally hitting on exactly what Bucky has just been thinking about. It could easily be either. “We could hunt down the Mob – okay, not the Russians, maybe another Mob - and - ”

Natasha slaps the back of his head and Clint laughs. 

Even Bucky grins, although it quickly fades. He raises and then lowers one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug and looks away.

“I’m not sure I… I mean. It’d be a lot of work. I don't think I’m up for that. Right now.” It’s difficult, putting the words together. He adds, just to be clear, “I mean getting a dog, not hunting down a Mob.”

Clint frowns in thought, pausing for a moment with one hand holding the fridge door open and a carton of milk in the other. Bucky is waiting for Clint to contradict him, to say that if Clint can be a responsible pet owner - well, he lets the dog eat pizza, so he isn’t entirely, but still - then Bucky certainly can. Instead he replies, “Eh, get a cockroach. Those things will survive the apocalypse.”

“Do _not_ get a cockroach,” Natasha tells Bucky, but her glare is all for Clint.

Natasha doesn’t like cockroaches. Bucky isn’t sure if that’s something he’s always known or just remembered about her. Either way, note made.

“Get him a pet rock, if you must,” she says. She leans around Clint to put a cheese on the top shelf of the fridge and Clint moves back into action, slotting the milk into the fridge door.

“How is a rock a pet, Nat?” 

“Exactly.”

Clint turns to let Bucky see that he’s rolling his eyes.

“Doesn’t have to be a Mob,” he says, casually returning to dogs. He stuffs the reusable shopping bags in the box under the sink, where they’ll live until next time. “We could go to a shelter. Find some mutt down on its luck. You’d be the best thing to happen to it in its life.”

Bucky shakes his head.

“And there’s service dogs,” Clint says lightly. 

It’s something Bucky has overheard him suggesting to Natasha before, as something that might help Bucky. Clint forgets how good Bucky’s hearing is sometimes.

“No.” Bucky flexes the metal hand, focussing on feeling the tiny adjustments of the plates, and reminds himself that Clint means well. 

Bucky has… good days and bad days. 

Step one: acknowledge that you have a problem. Bucky’s still kind of stuck on that part. He’d thought that he’d moved past being messed up, that he was _better_ , but it turns out that when you finally stop to catch your breath sometimes the bad shit catches up with you. He’d been doing fine; he’d found a place with the Avengers, with Clint and Natasha. Then he’d found himself having more bad days than good and found himself a therapist, who pointed out that if you really want to get rid of the bad shit sometimes you have to stop, turn around, and take it apart. 

He sees her every week. He talks, when he can; cracks himself open like an egg to show her his insides. That’s about as much as he can handle at the moment. Just trying to talk.

“No,” he says again, followed by a squeezed out, “thank you.”

“Okay then,” says Clint, seemingly taking no offence. 

He flops onto the couch next to Bucky, much like Lucky did earlier, with his stripy-socked feet in Bucky’s lap. He pats the narrow space on his right, between himself and the back couch cushion, and the dog follows, trying to fit into the gap but mostly piling in on top of Clint’s legs, butt pressed against Bucky’s hip and wagging tail thumping against his arm. Bucky carefully holds Lucky’s tail still for a moment, to encourage him to stop, but when he lets go Lucky carries on hitting him with it. The dog seriously doesn’t give a shit.

Neither does his owner, grinning at Bucky being under attack by happy dog.

“What are you doing?” Bucky asks, making an effort not to sound as suspicious as he feels.

“Sharing,” Clint says, as if it’s obvious.

“He’s your dog.”

“Sure.” Clint wriggles, getting comfortable, and crosses his ankles. “And we’re in a relationship, so that makes him your dog too, right?”

Bucky frowns.

“We share each other, the apartment, the pets. That’s part and parcel of being together,” Clint tells him.

Bucky doesn’t know if this is a common knowledge relationship rule or something that Clint has made up, and he looks to Natasha for guidance. Clint is often as at sea as Bucky when it comes to relationship skills, but he doesn't always let on, preferring to fake it until he makes it. Or until he can ask one of them or Kate for advice.

Natasha walks over with two glasses of water and hands one to Bucky. He didn’t ask for it, but he takes it. He can’t remember the last time he had a drink. It tastes like relief, cool and refreshing as it slides down his throat.

She perches on the arm of the sofa next to him, not touching but close enough that he could reach out for contact if he wants it, and sips at her own water.

“Sharing pets when you’re in a relationship can be a thing,” she agrees. 

Not that Liho would accept being owned by Clint or Bucky. She doesn’t even accept being owned by Natasha really, just acts like Natasha is her servant in all things. Bucky admires the cheek, even if he doesn’t think he’s really a cat person.

“We could get a joint ownership certificate or something,” Clint muses. “Are those a thing?”

That’s too far. Bucky shifts in discomfort and leans down to put his empty glass on the floor.

“Would we need some form of ID or residential proof, like we did for the apartment?” Clint continues. Natasha goes still and Bucky tenses in response to that as well as Clint’s words, fight or flight mode engaged, but Clint is oblivious, eyes shut and head tilted back to rest against the other arm of the couch. “Have we still got that?”

“Explain,” Bucky says quietly, words a little easier now that his mouth isn’t dry.

Clint cracks an eye open to look at him, confusion flickering across his face. “The ID we used to add you onto the lease for the apartment? I mean, I own the building anyway, so I can probably do what I want, but it’s all official and everything.”

“I…” Bucky takes a moment, trying and failing to absorb this new information. “I’m on the lease for this apartment with you?”

“Well, yeah.” Clint shrugs, apparently really not aware of the magnitude of the bomb that he’s just dropped. “And with Nat, obviously.”

“ _Why?_ ” Bucky manages to get out.

Clint shrugs again. “Because we’re in a relationship? Mi casa es tu casa?”

Bucky reaches out, wrapping a hand around one of Clint’s ankles as that’s the first thing he comes into contact with, and holds on. He needs the anchor point.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Clint says, peering at him. “I trust you with everything. With my life, to let me love you and futz it up and to still be here. With Nat, with my dog, with everything. And if something happens to me - ” Bucky tightens his hold on Clint’s ankle and Clint half-sits up, propping himself up on his elbows. “No. No, listen: what if something happens to me? What if you need somewhere to stay? Least I can do is make sure that your home is _your home_. And if I bite it, are you telling me you wouldn’t take care of Lucky?”

The dog lifts his head, tongue lolling out as he smiles.

“I mean, look at those puppy-dog eyes,” Clint cajoles. “You really gonna leave him hanging?”

“No,” says Bucky, because of course he wouldn't, but - 

“It’s a big deal,” Natasha says. Bucky turns to look at her and is vindicated by her serious expression; that someone else gets it. “It scared me too, when he told me that he wanted to put all of our names on the lease.”

“What?” Clint tries to sit up properly, almost dislodging Lucky, who licks the side of Clint’s face in revenge. Or love. Who knows? Clint wipes the doggy drool away with the back of one hand, not looking away from Natasha. “You never said!”

“No.” She smiles. “Because I wanted it.”

She bends to put her almost empty glass on the floor next to Bucky’s, getting it out of the way, and then leans towards him, offering support. He leans towards her in return until their shoulders rest against each other. 

“It scared me, but I wanted it. I told myself that it was just a piece of paper, that it didn’t mean anything. But then, why did it bother me so much? Because it _does_ mean something. It’s a gesture.” She nudges Bucky with her elbow to make sure that she has his full attention and says, “Clint will never buy us roses. Well, that would make it to us intact.” 

“Hey!” Clint protests and Bucky can’t help but smirk in response.

“He drinks coffee straight from the pot,” she continues over him, “and he leaves his socks on the floor and he can’t cook for shit, but we’re on the lease and he absolutely means that his dog is yours.”

In that context… yeah, okay. It’s still a thing with a huge impact that reverberates in Bucky’s bones and he’s going to need time, and probably a good few therapy sessions, to let it settle, but okay. It’s a gesture. Clint loves them; loves Bucky.

Bucky… Bucky’s pretty sure he knew that. 

“But we can absolutely get more pets if you want,” Clint adds. He’s blushing, eyes closed again like that helps him to hide at all. He’s funny when it comes to emotions - especially when good ones are directed at him. Bucky knows how that feels.

Bucky plants a hand on the back of the couch behind Lucky and, with a bit of careful balancing, manages to lean over the dog’s butt and Clint without putting all his weight on either of them. Lucky wags his tail, hitting Bucky in the stomach. Clint opens his eyes at the shift and watches him, holding still.

“Thank you,” Bucky tells him. It’s not _I love you too_ , because that's not something that they say, but that's what he means. They’re the easiest words he’s said all day.

“Uh-huh.” 

Clint blushes again and Bucky knows that he understands. 

Bucky also knows how far down that blush goes, which is a nice memory, and he can’t resist pressing a kiss to Clint’s mouth. He hears Natasha laugh behind him so he kisses Clint again. Lazy kisses. Kisses him until Clint’s lips are wet and his mouth drifts open and he starts making lovely little noises, practically melting into the couch cushions.

Clint’s hands fumble with Bucky’s hair tie, undoing the mess Liho left of Bucky’s bun, and when it finally falls loose around his face Clint threads his fingers through it, resting his hands gently on Bucky’s head. Not to direct anything, just to feel and hold close.

Bucky doesn't magically have more energy today just because his boyfriend is kissing him, doesn't know that he can promise more right now, but this is good. 

“But,” Bucky says, pulling back and catching his breath, “you still should have asked me. About the lease.”

Bucky needs to tell him that, because his therapist keeps saying that making choices is important, even when they send his head spinning. This one wouldn’t have though, he doesn't think. The big ones never do; it’s the little things he has to watch out for. And when he thinks about his name next to theirs on the lease, he thinks he would have wanted to put it there himself, regardless.

Clint gazes up at him, lips spit-shiny and fingers tangled in Bucky’s hair.

“Like Natasha said, it’s a big deal,” Bucky echoes. He takes hold of one of Clint’s hands, tugging it free from his hair, and squeezes.

“I honestly thought you knew,” Clint says, looking dazed.

“My fault.” Natasha stands up, moving into their line of sight and stretching with her hands above her head. The bottom of her t-shirt rides up to reveal the waistband of her jeans, riding low on her hips, and her underwear peeking out above them. Bucky doesn’t think it’s an entirely calculated move - the underwear isn’t anything fancy - but both himself and Clint are predictably distracted.

“I didn’t tell him.” She turns to Bucky and looks him in the eye. “I meant to sit down with you and discuss it, but I didn’t think you were ready to hear. We shouldn’t have gone ahead without telling you and Clint didn’t mean to but I - It wouldn’t have been right. For it not to have been the three of us. And I didn’t think it was a good time for you, but, well. I wanted to do it and I couldn’t leave you out.” 

She takes a breath and braces herself, adjusting her stance. Telegraphing that she's going to stand here and accept whatever judgement he sends her way.

“I’m sorry. We should’ve waited so you could’ve signed it yourself.”

Natasha reads people so well that sometimes she makes decisions as though things have already been discussed. Mostly she's right, but that's beside the point. She has to remember to give the rest of them chance to catch up. And to surprise her sometimes.

And yet. She wouldn't do it without him and that she couldn't wait. That’s… That’s a _Natasha_ gesture.

If Clint shows that he loves them by wanting a joint lease, then Natasha agreeing to sign is unsurprising. But Natasha being unable to do it without including Bucky and being so keen to officially share a home with both of them, equally, that she couldn’t wait for Bucky to be ready, _is_. Clint and Natasha were already living together when Bucky came along. He’d expect them both to sign a lease together first, and then maybe later to let him in. Never mind anything that Bucky and Natasha shared in the past, and however much Bucky can remember or not; _he_ moved in with _them_. 

Apparently that doesn’t matter. 

He’d thought that he was the furthest point on the isosceles triangle of their relationship – and there’s nothing wrong with that – but it turns out it was an equilateral all along.

Still, Bucky would have liked to surprise Natasha in turn, by being able to say ‘yes’.

“Next time, ask me.” Bucky’s mouth, still tasting of Clint, curves into a smile. “I guess you really wanted to join in with that gesture, huh?”

“Oh, shut up,” she tells him, using collecting their empty water glasses and returning them to the kitchen as an excuse to retreat. She’s funny with emotions too, when they're her own.

Bucky squeezes Clint’s hand again, getting his attention.

“And you; don’t leave things to Natasha.”

“Okay,” Clint says, squeezing back, still looking a bit kiss-drunk. “Y’know, the lease will be up at the end of the year anyway. We can all sign it then if you like.”

Bucky stares at him.

“Why do you have a one year lease on an apartment in a building that you own?” he hears Natasha say from the kitchen, which is a fair question although not the first thought that popped into Bucky's head.

Clint shrugs.

“Because the old landlord set everyone up on one and I didn’t bother - um, I haven’t gotten around to changing it yet?”

“Right,” says Natasha with a sigh, walking over to sit on the coffee table facing them - their unofficial third chair when they’re not all piled on the couch. “Because of course. We’ll add that to the to-do list, along with a new dryer and whatever else needs doing, shall we?”

“Your name’s only on the apartment, not the building,” Clint replies, eyes glinting and, catching that look, Bucky watches him in anticipation of what follows. “Want it to be?”

People forget sometimes that Clint Barton is one of the sharpest knives in the drawer and Clint encourages it, so when he cuts it’s mistaken for luck or an accident, but sometimes he deliberately lets flashes of it show and Bucky loves it. 

“Jesus, Clint.” Natasha stares at him for a moment, wrong footed, and it’s amazing that Clint - that anyone - can do that to her. She swallows. “One thing at a time.”

“Sure.” Clint tilts his head back against the arm of the couch again with a smug look on his face, tucks his feet under Bucky’s thigh, and let his eyes slid shut. “I can wait. I’m good at waiting.”

Bucky kisses him again, because he has to. Because of his sharp edges, because of his stupidly smug face, because Bucky loves him. Then he tips onto his side so that he’s lying in the gap between the back of the couch and Clint, and a little _on_ Clint, with Lucky’s rear end tucked between them and the rest of the dog draped across Clint’s legs. Bucky rests his head on Clint’s chest, just below his shoulder, and Clint wraps an arm around him. It’s warm and comfy.

Their joined hands end up on Clint’s stomach, which grumbles.

“Charming,” Natasha says, but she’s smiling at them both.

“You gonna feed us?” Clint asks Natasha, sleepy and eyes still closed, obviously not intending to move any time soon himself.

She’s a decent cook when she wants to be, but it's not something that she especially likes doing. Unlike Bucky, who’s starting to feel a twinge of curiosity about what he could make with the shopping that he watched them sort out.

“Nah, I’ll do it,” Bucky offers. He feels like he could. “In a bit.”


End file.
